


Off Label

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Off Label [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran lies to himself, Alistair discovers that the things he wants aren't actually wrong, and warming balm is used in a decidedly off-label fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Label

**Author's Note:**

> I don't love the title, but I'm tired of trying to find a better one. Suggestions are welcome.

As entertaining as it is to watch Morrigan try to set Alistair on fire, Zevran excuses himself from the festivities as soon as it becomes clear that the others are all well and truly occupied. Years among the Crows taught him to tolerate the constant company of others, but that doesn't mean he has to like it, and the chance for an afternoon of solitude is far too tempting to resist.

The camp is silent, even the dog off watching Alistair practice under the cheerfully bloodthirsty eyes of their companions, and Zevran can strip down and stretch out in the tent for the first time since he joined this odd little group. Stretch being the operative word, and stretch he does, reaching out with fingers and toes to commandeer as much space as possible. He'll be required to give it back soon enough, to curl up on his own bedroll and grant Alistair the other half of the tent, but for now, he can sprawl to the very limit of his own reach. It's quite delicious, and he reaches outward until joints and muscles protest the strain, before relaxing back into a slightly more natural position.

All his thrashing around has landed him with his head on Alistair's bedroll, and Zevran inhales deeply, enjoying the smell without the man himself here to squawk protests. Cleanliness is one of Alistair's redeeming traits, and his bedroll smells less like sweaty warrior and more like soap and warm skin. Oh there's a subtle hint of sweaty warrior beneath that, but just a hint. Enough to add savor without making Zevran's nose wrinkle, and it's as delicious in its own way as this brief, private moment.

Zevran dozes, drifting in and out of dreams, half an ear cocked toward the distant sounds of shouting and laughing. When those sounds fade, he knows he'll need to dress and retreat to his own side of the tent, but so long as the others are practicing, he can luxuriate in this temporary seclusion.

With Alistair's scent all around him, perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that his dreams turn eventually to fantasies, fantasies that persist even after he wakes. Not that Zevran makes much of an effort to redirect his thoughts. Alistair is handsome in that rugged, farmboy sort of way that's so popular in Ferelden, and after catching a few glimpses of Alistair's naked body, Zevran is beginning to see the attraction. All those hard muscles...

He loses himself for a little while, imagining exactly what all those hard muscles could do, and it isn't long before something else hard begins to draw his attention. In the distance, the others are still practicing, so Zevran reaches down and begins to stroke himself.

Maybe it would be smart to hurry--there's no telling how long he has--but he doesn't feel like it, and the anticipation is sweet enough to be worth the risk of an interruption before he can finish. This is something else he's missed, the time to stroke himself slowly, to enjoy his body rather than rush toward some hasty, unsatisfying conclusion.

Made faint by distance, he hears their fearless leader laugh and shout, "Yes, just like that!"

Zevran knows the words aren't for him, but he smirks anyway and squeezes himself a little tighter. A few minutes later, though, he hears footsteps approaching and his hand stills. There's no jingle of mail or plate, so it can't be Alistair, but the gait is wrong to be Sten and too heavy to be anyone but a warrior.

Zevran wastes time dithering over who it could be--his instructors among the Crows are likely rolling in their graves--and when the feet stop outside his tent, he realizes he doesn't have time to hide what he's been doing. Well, he could pull Alistair's bedroll over himself, but that's hardly less incriminating, and the last thing he wants is to let anyone think he's ashamed of his body or his skills. Besides, it's only Alistair, and it shouldn't take more than two sentences to send him away, skin burning hotter than Morrigan's spells could ever match.

Zevran keeps his eyes closed, waiting for the right moment, forcing his mouth to stay relaxed and free of revealing smirks. There's a rustle of canvas, and a soft curse as Alistair fights with the ties holding the tent flap closed, and some more rustling, then nothing. The tent must be open by now, Zevran plainly visible, but it's so silent he might almost have imagined the other sounds.

Curious, Zevran lets his eyes flutter open, summoning his best seductive smile. Sure enough, Alistair is kneeling in the opening, staring at Zevran with wide eyes, his hands frozen on the canvas of the door.

Only, the look on his face isn't one of embarrassment: it's pure lust, the kind of want a desire demon would be proud of, and Zevran's now the one off balance. Not that he lets it show as he deliberately moves his hand on his cock. "You seem to have lost your armor, my friend," he says, pitching his voice low and intimate.

Alistair's eyes, which had been tracing one of his tattoos, snap up to meet Zevran's, and now the expected blush appears. "Sandal..." he mutters, waving his hand vaguely in the right direction. "A new rune." As red as his face is, he maintains eye contact without trying to hide his expression.

 _Oh ho!_ Zevran thinks, and smiles more broadly. He's caught Alistair looking a time or two, but he never thought much of it. His body is a work of art, after all, designed to draw attention and distract anyone who might be looking. Sheltered chantry-boy that he is, how could Alistair have the experience to do anything except stare? And all right, Zevran will admit to teasing him, to taking a bit too long to get dressed or a bit too much pleasure in washing himself, but then, Zevran has always liked to tease. If Alistair is too innocent to know how to respond to that teasing, it doesn't make it any less fun.

Of course, the look he's getting now has nothing of innocence or naïveté about it, and Zevren licks his lips slowly. "Did you need something?" he asks, rocking his hips a little. Even if Alistair does turn tail and run now, Zevran will stroke himself thinking of those eyes on him. Which gives him an idea, and he adds, "Or do you prefer to watch while I pleasure myself?"

Alistair looks away, his blush deepening, and Zevran is surprised by a tiny surge of disappointment. Zevran has no interest in an inexperienced lover, and certainly no interest in an inexperienced lover who's embarrassed by the very idea of sex. He likes men and women who know what they want and aren't afraid to ask for it, to demand it. There's a decent chance that Alistair can't even say the word "cock" without dying of embarrassment, and that holds very little appeal for Zevran.

"Would you?" Alistair asks, and his hoarse voice jerks Zevran out of his thoughts.

It takes him a second to understand the question, and when he does, he barely keeps his eyebrows from flying up. "Would I pleasure myself while you watched? I might be persuaded to do so, if you like." Alistair still isn't meeting his eyes, but his breathing has picked up speed. "You would find me very easy to persuade, if I had the pleasure of watching you do the same."

Alistair swallows audibly, and Zevran holds his breath, waiting to see what happens. Then he exhales as silently as possible when Alistair moves awkwardly forward, still on his knees, so he can tie the tent flap closed with the two of them inside.

"Do it, then," Alistair says, the words almost a growl, and Zevran again has to work to control his expression.

Rather than move his hand, Zevran makes a disapproving noise with his tongue. " _Persuade_ , my friend. I said I could be persuaded. At the moment, you are not terribly persuasive."

"Persuasive," Alistair repeats, as if the word is new to him. Perhaps it is: warriors tend to solve problems by stabbing them, after all.

"Yes, persuasive," Zevran says encouragingly. "I have already provided you with one alternative, but you may be creative, if you wish."

Alistair's blush deepens, but he makes short work of his belt and tunic, tossing them to one side without minding where they land. His hands pause on his trouser laces, however, and his eyes follow Zevran's tattoos once again.

"That is, indeed, an improvement," Zevran says, "but I think I will require perhaps a little bit more."

As if he's having second thoughts, Alistair's hands drop to his sides, and Zevran curses himself for ruining this. Experience, or lack thereof, is becoming less important than the chance to see exactly how far this will go.

"More," Alistair repeats, and if he's going to make a habit of echoing Zevran, there are some fascinating possibilities to be considered.

Before Zevran can adequately consider any of them, Alistair drops to his hands and knees and crawls across the tent floor. He moves with an easy grace completely at odds with the blush still staining his cheeks, and his eyes are too dark for the afternoon sunlight, even dimmed as it is by the tent canvas. Zevran's breath catches, and he doesn't try to hide the shiver of desire that prickles across his skin.

Knees on either side of Zevran's thighs, hands bracketing his shoulders, Alistair stares down at one of the swirling tattoos. His movements are hesitant as he lowers his head, but that hesitation vanishes when his lips touch skin, and his soft growl vibrates through Zevran's chest. He follows the tattoo with his mouth, biting and licking until Zevran arches up underneath him.

Only half aware of what he's doing, Zevran twists his fingers through Alistair's hair, encouraging him to bite harder. His other hand is working the ties on Alistair's trousers, deft and sure even as a tiny part of his brain says, _Wait, what? Wait, Alistair?_ over and over again.

Just as the ties give way, Alistair grabs his wrist and pins it to the ground over his head. It's a surprisingly firm grip, and while Zevran could get out of it if he wanted to, it's strong enough to allow him to pretend he can't. Alistair's hand is unnaturally hot, almost burning, and Zevran wonders idly if one of Morrigan's spells found its mark. Surely Wynne wouldn't have let him return to camp without healing it, though?

Alistair grabs his other hand and pins it, too, letting his weight down to rest on Zevran, and that's a serious distraction. He's heavy, his body pressing against Zevran's hard enough that it would take actual effort to get free, and while part of him hates it, hates being trapped, most of him is dizzy with want. This is Alistair, after all, and while Zevran wouldn't trust him to stay alive in a back alley, he certainly trusts him to back off at the first murmur of protest.

Which is almost a shame, because Zevran would definitely enjoy the chance to shout "no!" while Alistair takes him roughly. Just the thought has him thrusting his hips upward, seeking some kind of pressure on his cock. Alistair would likely be horrified at the suggestion, but maybe they can work up to it?

Or maybe he wouldn't be horrified at all, because he shifts his grip to hold both of Zevran's wrists in one too-warm hand, leaving the other free to yank Zevran's head to the side and keep it there. His teeth are sharp and hard against the skin of Zevran's throat, and Zevran knows he should say something, warn him not to leave a mark where the others can see, but he can't bring himself to care right now.

Then Alistair begins to talk, and Zevran can't even care that he doesn't care, because the words steal the last tiny bit of his sanity. "Persuade," Alistair growls, "that's what you say, but that's not really what you want. You don't want me to persuade, you want me to take." The last word is almost lost as Alistair bites the side of his neck hard enough to hurt. "You tease me all the time, and you think I don't know it, but I know, and I know what you want."

 _Wait, what?_ mutters that voice in the back of Zevran's head again. _Wait, Alistair?_

 _Who cares?_ he snaps back, and it shuts up at last.

He wraps his legs around Alistair's waist, grinding their cocks together. "Is that your plan, then?" he murmurs in Alistair's ear. "Will you take what you want from me?"

Alistair bites him again, a little lower, worrying at the skin until Zevran knows it will be red and purple later.

"You think it will be so easy as that?" Zevran asks. "You think you can take a Crow without a fight?"

"No," Alistair says. His stubble rubs on the mark he's just made, rough against sensitive skin, and Zevran groans. "I don't think it's easy, but I think you're not going to fight me."

 _Brasca!_ Where is this coming from? What happened to the blushing chantry-boy who gaped at Zevran's naked chest the first time he saw it? "Are you drunk?" Zevran asks, because it's the only explanation he can think of, and about the only reason he would put a stop to this.

Alistair leans back enough to meet his gaze. "Do I look drunk?"

" _Look_ drunk? Not in the least." Zevran knows he's going to kick himself for days if his words steal away Alistair's courage and drop them back onto the path he expected them to take, but he has to live with the man tomorrow and for however long it takes to defeat an archdemon. He doesn't want Alistair to conveniently look the other way the next time Zevran needs him in the middle of a fight.

And if he's honest--which he tries to avoid, but sometimes it sneaks up on him anyway--he likes Alistair, and he doesn't like the thought of Alistair twisted into knots over this later.

"I'm not drunk," Alistair says, lowering his face back into the curve of Zevran's neck. The hand pinning Zevran's to the ground squeezes tighter, and Zevran pulls against it, hard enough to drag himself a few inches along the ground. It makes absolutely no difference: Alistair's hands don't budge, and that grip, combined with the weight crushing him, have Zevran aching to be fucked.

He fights back a little harder. Still not as hard as he could, but harder than he was, making Alistair work to hold him as he twists and struggles. The word "stop!" pushes against the back of his teeth, not because he wants this to stop but because it's a logical extension of the game, a game Zevran has always enjoyed. Maybe without a Crow's brutal training, he would hate it, but he doesn't spend a lot of time worrying about such things. He is who he is, and he likes what he likes. What difference does it make if he would have been someone else, liked other things, in a different world? This is the world he has, and since right now, that world includes Alistair holding him down to mark his neck and chest, Zevran has no interest in complaining.

In a real fight, this isn't a position Zevran would have let himself get trapped in because it allows Alistair to take advantage of his greater strength and height, but for this game? It's utterly perfect, and the fact that he can't escape without hurting Alistair draws a needy whine from his throat. He pulls against Alistair's grip again and lets himself fall into the role he's supposed to be playing, gasping out, "Stop!"

Nothing this afternoon has gone the way Zevran expected, but this surprise is less pleasant than the rest: rather than bite him again, Alistair all but leaps backwards.

His face is as pale as it was red a second ago, and his eyes are now wide with horror rather than arousal. "Maker," he breathes. "Maker, I'm sorry!"

He scrambles for his tunic, and Zevran lunges forward to stop him. "I'm sure your Maker has other concerns," he says, putting his knee down on Alistair's tunic.

"I'm sorry!" Alistair whispers. He glances at Zevran, eyes going straight to the marks on his neck, and he looks like he might be sick. "I'm so sorry, I should never have-"

"The only thing you should 'never' do," Zevran interrupts, "is tease so cruelly and then leave. I do not recall asking for apologies."

"I forced myself on you-"

"Did you now?" Zevran interrupts again. "Do you truly think that you could hold me if I wanted to be free?"

That, at least, seems to make an impact. Alistair still looks ill, but he stops trying to pull his tunic out from under Zevran's knee. "You...what?"

A strange idea begins to form. It was clear from Zevran's first night in camp that Alistair was inexperienced, probably a virgin, and Zevran had made certain assumptions about the reasons why a fit young man, obviously interested, would abstain when surrounded by those who were clearly willing. Some of those assumptions had already been proven wrong--of course Zevran looked, how could anyone expect him not to?--and he had eventually decided that Alistair feared being mocked for his lack of skill.

But what if his fear was not that a partner would mock him, but that they would retreat from him and call him a monster? Zevran pushes down with his knee to prevent Alistair from reclaiming his tunic and asks, "This little game, it is not new to you, yes?"

Alistair shakes his head vehemently. "I would never force-"

"I did not say you would." Sooner or later, Zevran supposes he'll have to let Alistair finish a sentence. Not yet, though. "But this is what you think about, when you touch yourself: making someone yours, marking them and taking them."

"Not...not..." Alistair meets his eyes, almost by accident, and whatever lie he was about to tell fades into truth. "Not every time," he says weakly. He looks miserable and ashamed, and his cock is no longer straining against his unlaced trousers.

"And your chantry says this is wicked?"

Alistair nods once, shortly.

"Even if everyone is willing?"

"Who would want to be held down like that?" Alistair whispers.

"I believe I was enjoying it rather a lot," Zevran says. He's not in a position to prove that, alas, as the conversation has softened his cock almost as much as it has Alistair's, but he smiles, hoping Alistair will think past his guilt and remember Zevran rubbing against him.

"I hurt you," Alistair says, touching the side of his own neck. "I could have hurt you more, and you wouldn't have been able to stop me."

"Ah, the arrogance of youth." Zevran sighs, and when Alistair frowns in puzzlement, he spreads his arms wide, fingers pointed back toward his chest. "If you think you can hold me against my will, you are welcome to try."

"You said stop," Alistair says.

"I did," Zevran admits, turning his hands palm up as he shrugs. "But I did not mean it. It is part of the game for me, to say stop knowing you will ignore it."

Alistair frowns. "But then how do I know if stop means stop, or if stop means don't stop?"

Zevran considers a number of responses, and decides to keep things simple for now. "Later, perhaps, you will let me teach you about watchwords, but for now, if I promise to say stop only if I mean it, will you give up this pointless guilt? There are many things we could be doing that would be far more interesting."

Another blush appears on Alistair's cheeks, a refreshing change after the previous unnatural pallor. "You...you didn't mind?"

Zevran spreads his arms wider and gives Alistair a challenging smirk. "I will make you a deal, my friend. If you can pin me for a count of five, I will suck your cock as softly and as sweetly as you and your chantry might wish."

Alistair's pupils go wide, and his hips twitch. "And if I can't?" he asks, his voice almost back to its earlier growl. "If I can't pin you?"

"If _I_ pin _you_ , then you'll hold me down and fuck me as hard as you can, for as long as you can."

The blush is creeping down Alistair's chest now, and his cock is showing signs of life, but his gaze is surprisingly level as he searches Zevran's eyes. "You do like it," he says after a moment, his tone awed.

"I believe I have been saying that very-"

Alistair tackles him, knocking the wind out of him, and Zevran laughs soundlessly even as his lungs protest the abuse. Challenge accepted, then.

Not that it's much of a contest, not now that Zevran is making an actual effort, and it takes him less than thirty seconds to twist Alistair into a position where his options are to submit or have his arm broken.

"I yield," Alistair gasps, but as soon as Zevran releases him, he flips them over, hands pinning Zevran's over his head once again.

He hesitates this time, searching Zevran's face for permission or reassurance, and Zevran licks his lips deliberately. "We had a deal, I believe, though I realize I was not as specific as I might have been." He hadn't said how Alistair would fuck him, after all. "Did you wish to fuck my mouth? Grab my hair and shove your cock between my lips, force me to take it all?"

Alistair crushes their mouths together before he can go on, tongue thrusting into his mouth hard and fast. There's no skill or finesse to the kiss--it's sloppy and graceless and wet--but Zevran loves every second of it. He sucks on Alistair's tongue and lips, hooking an ankle around Alistair's thigh to press their bodies together again, and gives a groan that's only slightly exaggerated.

Before he can lose himself, Zevran pulls back and says breathlessly, "Fuck me however you like, but soon, or I will not be responsible for my actions."

This gets him yet another blush, but it also gets him a look hot enough to make his skin burn. Well, his wrists are already burning, and he really should give some thought to exactly what's wrong with Alistair's hands, except that "wrong" isn't the word he wants to use. The heat is burrowing under his skin, and when Alistair finally reaches between their bodies to squeeze his cock, only years of training keep Zevran from screaming, it feels that good.

"Your hands," he gasps out. "Brasca! What did you do to your hands?"

Alistair hesitates, and Zevran forces his eyes to focus on that confused frown. "My hands?" He brings the body part in question up in front of his face, and Zevran groans a protest at losing that perfect heat. "I didn't do anything to my-...oh!"

"Your oh?" Zevran asks, tilting his hips up to rub his cock on Alistair's thigh.

"It's warming balm," Alistair says. "I was testing a new recipe for Leliana, and I didn't wash it off."

He looks like he's about to apologize again. Zevran forestalls him by demanding, "Do you have more?"

"More? Probably, in my-"

"Get it," Zevran says, bending himself almost in half to put his knees against Alistair's stomach so he can shove him off. "Get it now."

Alistair hits the ground with an undignified "oomph," then lunges for his bag. He digs through it, heedless of the contents, and Zevran winces at the sound of breaking glass, hoping the contents weren't something dangerous.

There's no more time to worry about it because Alistair is back, a small clay jar clutched in one hand. Zevran snatches it away from him and yanks out the cork, scooping up a generous amount to smear it across Alistair's fingers, only to remember that Alistair likely has absolutely no idea what to do. Time for a new plan.

"Touch yourself," he says, and Alistair does, groaning as his hand grips the shaft and begins to stroke.

As the heat from the warming balm sinks in, Alistair's back bows and his mouth falls open. "Oh, Maker," he breathes, and Zevran grins.

"Oh, yes," he agrees. "But not so fast, if you please. We had a bargain, and I intend to hold you to it."

Alistair swallows hard, his hand squeezing at the base of his cock. "Then tell me what to do."

It's the first time Zevran has heard anyone make those words sound like a command. "Yes, ser," he murmurs, curious to see what reaction the words produce. Alistair's hips jerk, and Zevran smiles.

"Now," Alistair growls.

"Watch," Zevran says. He waits for Alistair to look at him, then hooks an arm under one knee and fucks himself with two fingers, his eyes never leaving Alistair's face. Alistair's gaze jumps from his face to his cock to his fingers and back to his cock.

Zevran is more than willing to play to his audience, enjoying himself as obviously as possible. Not faking it, but not making any effort to hide it, either. When he adds a third finger, _Alistair_ makes a pained noise, and Zevran decides they've both had enough teasing and rolls over to his hands and knees.

Arching his back, he looks over his shoulder and gives Alistair another challenging grin, deliberately taunting him. "I assume you don't require further instruction?"

It gets him exactly what he wanted: Alistair's hands grabbing his hips with bruising force, and Alistair's cock slamming into him hard enough to knock his hands out from under his shoulders. He drops face-first into the bedroll, letting the fabric muffle his groan, and shoves his ass backward to meet the next thrust. Alistair pounds into him like he's trying to fuck right through him, and Zevran encourages him as loudly as he dares. They are in a tent, after all, and Bodahn isn't _that_ far away. An interruption at this point might result in actual bloodshed.

Thinking becomes a lot more difficult when Alistair grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls hard, jerking his head back until he has to fight for breath. As if he's not already having enough trouble breathing, what with Alistair doing his level best to fuck all the air from his lungs.

Zevran begins to stroke his cock in time to Alistair's thrusts, sucking in labored breaths as best he can. The heat from the warming balm is spreading deeper, sinking into his body until it's all he knows, the heat and Alistair.

Alistair, who appears to have an amazing instinct for finding all the things Zevran likes best, because now he's bending forward, burying his face in the back of Zevran's neck. It slows his thrusts, but it's hard to mind with his mouth working its way along Zevran's hairline, teeth leaving marks wherever they pass, tongue and lips soothing each mark before moving on. His fingers are crushing Zevran's hip, pulling ruthlessly on his hair, harder and harder with every passing second until Zevran can't move, can barely breathe.

Still, he manages to get enough air to hiss, "Yes, yes, just like that," and Alistair's fingers grip tighter, his strokes turning ragged and stuttering as he bites down on Zevran's neck and comes, gasping through his teeth and shuddering.

Zevran swallows back a small noise of disappointment--Alistair lasted far longer than he would have expected--and strokes himself faster, not wanting to lose that feeling of being fucked, but too late. Alistair is already withdrawing, and Zevran opens his mouth to say something...

Then Alistair's fingers are there, three of them at once, and his hands are a lot bigger than Zevran's. It's clear he doesn't know what he's doing, but he hits the right spot by accident, and he's a quick learner, responding eagerly to Zevran's half incoherent instructions until Zevran is right on the edge.

Alistair's mouth is still exploring Zevran's neck, a little more gently now, and his nose is buried in the hollow behind Zevran's ear as he whispers in a voice equal parts lust and wonder, "Maker, I can feel my seed inside you," and Zevran's world explodes, his whole body jerking and twisting as he climaxes, groans scraping his throat raw as he comes apart.

When he can feel his body again, he doesn't bother trying to roll over, just lets his knees slide out from under him until he's sprawled face down on the bedroll. Alistair's bedroll, and Zevran knows he's going to associate that smell with sex for a while, quite possibly for the rest of his life.

Alistair's bedroll, unfortunately, has a distinct lack of Alistair, and when that lack doesn't remedy itself within a few seconds, Zevran forces himself to flop onto his back. "You are allowed to lie down, you know," he says, because Alistair is still kneeling, his hands curled loosely on his thighs as he peers at Zevran through his eyelashes.

"Can...can I lie down with you?"

"As I believe I am currently occupying your bedroll, you may find it difficult to do otherwise."

"You don't mind? It's...all right?"

All right? Why would it not be all right? Zevran is having trouble prodding his mind into something other than "yessssss," but he can't think of a reason why he would object...

Oh. Yes.

He's a little surprised at how easy it was to forget the narrow range of Alistair's experiences prior to this afternoon. The worried look he's giving Zevran now, the one that says he's frozen in place because he's afraid of making the wrong move, is a painful reminder.

"Lie down, Alistair," Zevran says patiently, then amends this to, "Give me your tunic, then lie down."

"My tunic?" Alistair asks, even as he hands it over. Then he tries to snatch it back when Zevran uses it to wipe himself down. "Hey!"

"We will wash it later," Zevran says, using Alistair's grip on the tunic to tug him forward until he has to lie down or fall down.

He chooses to lie down. Reluctantly though: he stretches out on his back with a few inches between them, keeping his arms and legs tucked close, and Zevran wonders if the second thoughts are now taking over. Ignoring it is always an option, he supposes, letting Alistair work himself into a lather over his own "aberrant" behavior, but it would be a shame to never do this again. His decision is in no way influenced by a desire to spare Alistair the anguish and self-doubt that clearly afflicted him earlier.

Rather than ask awkward questions that will only require even more awkward answers, Zevran drapes himself across Alistair's chest, lying half on top of him. Alistair stiffens for a moment, then one of his arms folds itself very carefully around Zevran's shoulders.

"Is this all right?" Alistair asks nervously.

"Are you not comfortable?"

"Me? Oh, no, I'm fine, definitely fine, more than fine, really, very much better than fine, but I just..." He clears his throat. "You liked it earlier. When I was...rough. And this isn't. Rough, I mean."

Zevran slides over to straddle Alistair's body, pressing their chests together. "Just because I like rough," he says, lowering his head until his mouth hovers an inch above Alistair's, "does not mean I wish to be treated like shit afterward. If you don't wish to lie so close, I will accept that, but I will not accept being shunned or thrown from this tent."

Alistair jerks back as far as he can, which isn't very, and his eyes go wide. "Do people do that?"

Oh, he's definitely not to be left alone in dark alleys. Or alone in taverns, for that matter. Or maybe alone anywhere. How did he survive the Grey Wardens and Ostagar--life in general--to get this far with such illusions still intact?

It shouldn't be charming, but somehow it is. Zevran smiles and closes the last distance to kiss him, slow and deep, until Alistair's hands come up to squeeze his ass. "It happens," he says when he breaks the kiss. "But let us speak of happier things."

"Like what?" Alistair says, eyeing his smirk warily.

Zevran smiles wider and kisses him again, aware of the cock already growing hard against his stomach. "Oh, surely you can think of something."

**Author's Note:**

> I have an idea for a long fic that will include Alistair as a POV character, so I did a mad dash through the DAO fic on AO3, trying to get a feel for how other people have written him. I was unaware Alistair/Zevran was a thing (I didn't start seriously reading fanfic until after I finished DAII the first time), but I'm now intrigued and trying on different relationship dynamics for them. It's like playing dress-up, but for adults!


End file.
